


I know why (I don't know when)

by queermccoy



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crushes, Halloween Costumes, Holidays, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Mild Sexual Content, Scents & Smells, Teen Derek Hale, Time Travel, Trick or Treating, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27183532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queermccoy/pseuds/queermccoy
Summary: Panic raises in Derek’s stomach, bubbling up and making his shoulders hunch up by his ears. He looks around, frantic, desperate for Peter to pop up and tell him it’s all one of his jokes that aren’t funny to anyone but him. His breath is coming in fast, chest heaving and throat closing. It can’t be 2013. It can’t be. How did he even get here, time travel isn’t real. No one can do it, not even Deacon can. His mother never has. If there was a portal in the reserve, his mom would know about it, wouldn’t she? She would have told them.“Stop panicking!” Stiles says, patting his shoulder. “Take deep breaths!” Derek shrugs him off and continues to panic.or, Derek meets a cute boy in the future.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 2
Kudos: 152
Collections: Shipoween 2020 - The Halloween Ship Exchange!





	I know why (I don't know when)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_milky_way](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_milky_way/gifts).



> Title from winds of change by orville peck
> 
> Edit: I forgot to mention! This takes place after Derek leaves at the end of season four (?) and before Stiles disappears for FBI school. Derek’s already been deaged once, which is how Stiles recognizes him.

Derek is supposed to be at home with Cora. 

He’s supposed to be getting her ready for trick-or-treating, having been elected by their mother to take her on the rounds this year instead of Laura, who was given permission to go to a party instead. He’s not upset about it, exactly, so much as he is resentful that Laura is going to a party and Derek’s never been invited to one himself. 

It’s not that people don’t like him. He’s on the basketball team, he’s good at school, he’s got friends, but none of them seem to remember his number when they’re about to go out on the town or stay in and hang. Peter says it’s his unrelenting seriousness that makes people think he’s a wet blanket. He thinks it’s because he refuses to pretend that he’s wasted when he isn’t to fit in. 

Anyway, he’s supposed to be home with Cora and not out traipsing through the woods at twilight. 

He likes it better out here than he likes it inside, the sky open and huge and hanging open like the front door. Derek can go anywhere, be anything. It’s quieter too, he doesn’t feel as ignored here, because there’s no one else to come first, no one to matter more. It’s just him and the leaves and the crisp autumn air when he breathes in deeply through his nose. He smells the moist soil, the lichen growing up the trunk of a nearby tree, the swampy mud puddle where the land dips down and allows water to build up between the roots. 

There’s peace out here, and today he appreciates the way the sun is sliding behind the tree tops, orange and pink hues hot on its trail, inky purple and deep indigo following close behind. Being a werewolf means he doesn’t get cold, but the wind blows the hair on his arms and makes him shiver. He stomps through the underbrush, ducking under tree branches and dodging spider webs. 

With the way twilight is coming on fast, he’ll have to be turning back soon. Derek touches his fingertips to the rough bark of an oak Laura once carved her initials into when they were younger. She’d done it with her claws, and Derek had been too young, couldn’t control his shift enough, to do it too. 

Derek sighs and turns around, ready to walk back to the house, when suddenly the air in front of him shimmers. 

It’s hard to make out in the low light, and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t see it at all if he had human sight, but he sees an iridescence to the air in front of his nose, shining and glittering. It’s warmer than it was, heat seeping into his skin and coaxing him forward, into the distorted space. He knows he should get home, but he wants to put one foot in front of the other, to walk into it. The longer he waits to make his choice the harder it becomes to remember that there was one in the first place. 

He steps through the hum, eyes closed and heart beating fast. 

*

When he opens his eyes, he’s standing next to Beacon Hills High School, closer to the Hale family vault than the school itself. He looks around, at the bright blue sky, at the students rushing out of the building like a burst flood gate. 

Derek looks down at his hands, then back up at the sun. What happened? He blinks hard and shakes his head, but when he looks up the sun is still shining and he’s still at the high school. The sign is different, somehow, and the scaffolding around the remodel is gone. 

“What day is it?” Derek asks, reaching out and grabbing the first kid close enough to touch. He turns, and scrunches his face up, eyebrows draw together and hanging over his wrinkled nose. He’s taller than Derek, with brown hair and pale skin, and he’s cute. Derek thinks he would have remembered going to school with someone who looks like this, with big brown eyes and broad shoulders. Derek shakes his head, rids himself of the thoughts and schools his face into impatience. 

“Well?” he says, “What day is it?” 

“Derek?” the kid says, leaning forward. His eyebrows have smoothed out. He’s looking at Derek like he’s a specimen in a jar, something to be examined under a microscope. He reaches out and pokes Derek’s forehead. 

“Hey! Watch it.” Derek ducks, batting the kid’s hand away. “Have we met before?” 

The kid pulls his hand back and rubs them together, anxiety splashed across his cute face. He bites his lips and glances around. He grabs Derek’s hand and pulls him away from the school sign, across the lawn and through the parking lot. They weave through the throngs of other students. Some of them are holding and tapping on what Derek thinks might be cellphones, but he can’t see a keyboard, so he isn’t sure. He doesn’t know what else they could be. 

He should be annoyed that this boy is manhandling him, but he finds he doesn’t mind. He’s never actually held hands with anyone he wasn’t related to before, and it feels nice, even if he has no idea what’s going on. Everything is so confusing, he has no idea where he is or what’s going on, but this kid has big, square hands and Derek likes them so he doesn’t complain. 

“What year do you think it is?” the boy asks when they pull up next to an ugly Jeep that has definitely seen better days. He drops Derek’s hand and leans in so he’s blocking Derek in, either hiding him from everyone else or hiding everyone else from him, he doesn’t know. He hitches his backpack further up on his shoulder, the other side hanging down where he isn’t wearing it properly. 

“It’s 2004.” Derek crosses his arms over his chest. “Who are you? I don’t think we’ve met before,” he says. 

“I don’t think I’m allowed to say,” the kid replies, distracted. He’s tapping around on that weird phone everyone seems to have. He holds it up to his ear with one hand, other hand tapping against his leg, fingers dancing like he can’t sit still. 

“What does that me--” Derek starts, but the kid holds up his free hand to stop him. He draws it back and holds his finger to his pursed lips. 

“I’m on the phone, hold o--” the guy’s eyes go wide, head thrown back in disbelief. “You answered!” he exclaims, pulling his phone back, looks at the screen with raised eyebrows. 

Whoever is on the other line is speaking and the stranger’s face screws up again, like he’s confused and angry at the same time, lips flat and mouth in a straight line. He keeps glancing at Derek and then looking away again. 

“Why didn’t you say anything sooner! We could have, I don’t know, planned ahead!” This boy is so expressive, free hand flying around and even the elbow on his arm holding the phone up is moving, going up and down as he twists his torso. Derek is a little overwhelmed by him, the sheer magnitude of his presence. 

“What the hell, Derek?” he barks out, cupping his hand around his mouth to speak into the microphone like that means Derek won’t be able to hear him. What does that mean? He looks up at the sky and blinks into the sun. He tightens his arms over his chest. 

The stranger’s eyes roll and he asks, “Can I tell him-- you-- can I tell him my name?” He waits a beat and then adds, “Anything else I shouldn’t mention?” 

“Fine! Fine! See you whenever,” the guy says, then he must hang up, because he slides the weird phone back into his pocket. He mutters, “Asshole,” before turning back to Derek with a huge, fake smile.

“What is going on?” Derek demands. His hands are curled into fists, tucked into his arms crossed over his chest. He can hear his bones creaking under the thin skin of his hands. Dread is building in his gut, making him nervous. 

The kid holds out his hand, flat with his thumb flush along the curve of his index finger. Derek’s eyes trace over the square pads of his fingers before flicking up to his face. 

“I’m Stiles,” Stiles says. He jiggles his hand, like he’s reminding Derek to shake it. He slowly unclentches his hands and brings one down to shake Stiles’. He snatches it back and crosses his arms back over his chest after one pump. 

“Okay, what day is it? How do you know who I am?” Derek asks. He bites his lips and adds, “Who did you call?”

Stiles takes a deep breath and exhales hard, nostrils flaring. “It’s Halloween, 2013. Yes, that is the right date. I’m not crazy. You somehow traveled through time.” 

Panic raises in Derek’s stomach, bubbling up and making his shoulders hunch up by his ears. He looks around, frantic, desperate for Peter to pop up and tell him it’s all one of his jokes that aren’t funny to anyone but him. His breath is coming in fast, chest heaving and throat closing. It can’t be 2013. It can’t be. How did he even get here, time travel isn’t real. No one can do it, not even Deacon can. His mother never has. If there was a portal in the reserve, his mom would know about it, wouldn’t she? She would have told them. 

“Stop panicking!” Stiles says, patting his shoulder. “Take deep breaths!” Derek shrugs him off and continues to panic. He takes a deep breath anyway. 

It doesn’t help, really, but Stiles looks mollified. 

“Who were you on the phone with,” Derek asks again. He thinks he knows the answer, but he wants to hear Stiles say it, like saying it makes it real. 

“Future you,” he admits. Derek does some math and then furrows his brow. He’s 24 years old, in his own timeline, this kid is probably Cora’s age. Maybe he knows Cora? Maybe he could see her. He thinks he would feel better if he saw her, could talk to her. 

“Where’s Cora? Do you know Cora?” Derek asks, and Stiles shakes his head. 

“You-- he-- future you, he told me I have to take you to my house. He said that’s what he remembers doing when he was here? My head is killing me,” he mumbles the last part, thumbing along his hairline by his temple. 

“I want to talk to Cora though,” Derek complains. He wonders what she looks like now. She looks more like dad than he or Laura and he imagines his tiny tomboy sister older and can’t see it. 

“Nope, we’re going to casa Stilinski, come on,” Stiles says, and crowds him into the passenger’s side of the shitty Jeep, opening the door with one hand and shoving him inside with the other. 

Derek buckles up even though he really doesn’t need to. It makes humans feel safer when he does. That reminds him though, and when Stiles gets settled in the driver’s side he says, “You know about me? About werewolves?” 

“Well, yeah, dude.” Stiles is distracted again, driving through the parking lot without hitting any of the other students. “You’re a big scary creature of the night,” he says, taking one of his hands off the wheel long enough to claw at the air. He doesn’t look away from the road while he does this. 

“Do you know when I’ll get to go back home?” Derek doesn’t like how small his voice is, how his hands are gripping hard at the fabric of his jeans on either side of his thighs. He’s so anxious. “I have to take Cora trick-or-treating tonight. I’m supposed to be doing that right now.” 

Stiles glances at him before looking back at the road. He merges into after school traffic and says, “You-- he didn’t say, just that you go to sleep and when you woke up you were home.” 

“Can I talk to him?” 

“No, he’s in like, Bolivia or something right now.” 

“What am I doing in Bolivia?” Derek asks and frowns when Stiles shrugs. 

“Your guess is as good as mine!” he exclaims with false cheerfulness, a fake smile plastered to his face. He’s still handsome, even though Derek kind of wants to hit him. 

They’re quiet, driving in silence. The Jeep is a mess and Derek can hear where the parts are falling apart. He doesn’t know enough about cars to fix the problem, he can just hear where they are. He looks over at Stiles and thinks about telling him, but there’s a weird set to his shoulders, a tension, that keeps him from doing that. 

Derek wonders how they know each other again. He tries not to stare, but he thinks Stiles’ eyelashes are so pretty, he can’t stop himself from glancing over. 

“What are we going to do?” Derek asks, “Until I fall asleep?” 

Stiles shrugs. “I’m supposed to hand out candy tonight. I promised my dad. You could help me?” 

Derek leans his forehead against the passenger’s side window. He closes his eyes, but he uncurls his hands from his sides, can feel the cracks in his bones healing up, the pleasant buzz that comes with bones knitting back together. 

When they reach Stiles’ house, he kills the engine but pauses and doesn’t pull his keys out of the ignition. He sighs and runs a hand through his spiky hair. There’s enough product in it that it stays in place, undisturbed. 

On the lawn, there are a couple of foam gravestones. There’s a pumpkin on the porch vomiting up its own innards. It’s gross, but not gross enough to comment on. There’s a plastic witch hanging from the roof over the porch. The decoration is half hearted looking, but maybe his parents are busy. Derek doesn’t like to make time for stuff like this either. 

“Come on, pal,” Stiles says, finally, and opens his own door. He jumps out of the Jeep and is at Derek’s side before he can fully get out of the car himself, like he doesn’t trust Derek to follow him inside. 

Stiles’ house is normal, clean. Derek looks around, notices a very flat tv on the wall and a nice but well worn couch. There are pictures on the wall of a little kid who must be Stiles and a man who must be his dad. A woman who is probably his mom. Derek doesn’t see her anywhere, or hear her in the house, so she must be at work or something. 

“I have homework, but I have stuff you can do in my room until dinner if you want,” Stiles tells him, leading him up the stairs. Stiles’ room is the first one on the left, and even if it wasn’t messy with posters on the wall he would know it was his. It smells just like him. 

There’s a large transparent white board in the middle of the room with pictures taped to it, red string criss crossing all over the surface. Stiles’ handwriting resembles abstract art more than legible handwriting, but that doesn’t stop Derek from gravitating towards it, leaning in. Before he has a chance to make out what he’s looking at, Stiles has tossed a sheet over the whole thing. 

“Not for you,” Stiles says. Anger wells in Derek’s chest but he tamps it down. He’ll be home soon. It’s fine. It’s probably not a good thing if he finds out about his future before he has a chance to live it. He does roll his eyes though, so Stiles knows he’s being annoying. 

“Ah, there he is!” Stiles smiles and it looks real, big and wide and it makes his eyes sparkle. “That’s the Derek I know,” he says, still grinning. It makes Derek’s heart race, which is stupid because he was just angry with him.

He blushes, but turns away before Stiles can see it. He walks over to his bookshelf and pretends to be interested in the titles there, scanning the spines for anything worth looking at. 

Stiles is an absolute nerd, the top shelf full of graphic novels and sci-fi novels. The second and third shelves, though, hold some of the books he knows belong to his uncle Peter, some that he’s seen at Deacon’s clinic before, when his little cousin Brynn got into some Wolfsbane. Derek bites the inside of his cheek and glances over at Stiles, now sitting at his desk, laptop open and textbook spread out over the surface. The laptop is much slimmer and smaller than anything Derek’s ever seen, but that makes sense, it is the future after all. If phones are weird now, it makes sense that computers would be too. What doesn’t make sense is why a normal human boy would have this kind of literature, stuff Druids and wolves keep on hand. 

“What are you,” he asks before he can stop himself. He touches the spine of a book on magical herbs and spices he’s pretty sure his mom has a copy of. It’s newer than hers though. He looks over at Stiles.

Stiles snorts, flipping through his textbook. “I’m just a person, dude. Leave it, read a comic book or something,” he orders, pointing at the top shelf. Derek huffs, but grabs one at random. He flings himself into Stiles’ bed and flips it open to the first page. It’s a Batman comic, but it’s hard to focus when every time he shifts, he smells Stiles, the undercurrent of his jizz coming from the wastebasket in the corner, next to the side table by the bed. He tries to care about the Joker, but it’s really difficult and on top of whatever hormonal nonsense he’s going through, he’s still so stressed about making it back home. He hates this. 

“I hate this,” he mutters, falling back in the bed, dropping the comic book over his face. The paper helps block out the other smells, but doesn’t keep him from hearing Stiles snort again.

“You are the most dramatic person I have ever met,” he says like he’s sharing a secret with Derek. He tries not to be offended by that, but it’s hard because he thinks he’s being perfectly reasonable, considering the situation. What kind of life does Stiles lead where this is normal? Where his reaction is the dramatic one?

Listening to Stiles do his homework grows boring fast, so Derek does start actually reading the comic book, gets really invested in the plot, and when Derek looks up again, the sun is dying in the sky. Shadows grow long in Stiles’ room, cloaking him in a casual darkness, shading over his rounded features to make him more angular, more handsome. Stiles looks up from his computer, pencil see-sawing between his index finger and his thumb, mouth hanging open, and he catches Derek staring. 

Derek blushes, brings up the comic book to cover his face, and hopes Stiles hasn’t seen. 

Is it weird to have a crush on a boy from the future? Derek doesn’t know. His first crush died in his arms at the base of an ancient tree. He doesn’t have a solid basis for comparison. 

“Are you sick or something?” Stiles asks, and Derek wants to die. He definitely saw. 

He clears his throat and wills his face to chill out. “I’m fine,” he says. His voice is gruff, trying to project himself as a bigger, scarier person. 

“We have Hot Pockets for dinner, do you want cheese or ham?” Stiles asks, tossing his pen into his text book. It clatters and falls between the hills of the pages. Derek opens his mouth to respond, but Stiles interrupts, spinning idly in his desk chair, “Do you even know what a Hot Pocket is? Did they have those when you were a kid?” 

“I’m not from the 18th century,” Derek huffs. He sits up in Stiles’ bed and swings his legs to the side, sets his feet on the floor. 

“Jeez, okay, don’t bite my head off!” Stiles stands, motions somehow smooth and jerking, which seems impossible, but he manages. Derek stands too, and he follows Stiles back down the stairs. 

Stiles is typing on his weird phone again, walking into the kitchen. Derek looks over his shoulder and can’t read what he’s doing, Stiles moves away too fast, but it looks like texting, if texting was a website? Everything is blue and bubbled. 

“Who are you talking to?” Derek asks, dodging Stiles and popping up over his shoulder again. Stiles ducks away again, spinning on his toes so he’s facing Derek now instead of standing with his back to him. “Are you talking to me?”

“What? No,” Stiles says. “I don’t want anyone to come over tonight and see you. It’s too weird and you were just—“ 

“I was just what?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” Stiles grimaces, sliding his phone into the front pocket of his jeans. They’re tighter than anything Derek owns, then anything any of the boys at school would be wearing, back in his own time. 

Derek doesn’t want to drop it. He does, because his stomach is growling and Stiles is opening his freezer and pulling out their dinner, but he really doesn’t want to. 

Stiles puts the Hot Pockets, cheese even though he never got an answer from Derek, into the microwave. 

They eat their too hot and too cold imitation pizza pastries in silence at Stiles’ kitchen table and it’s awkward. There are manila folders stacked up at the end, with a cardboard box labeled ‘Sheriff’s Department’ on the side. Stiles doesn’t offer up an explanation and Derek doesn’t ask. 

He’s a little worried Stiles stole it, and if Stiles stole police records and Derek knows him maybe that means Derek isn’t a good guy in the future. Maybe he’s up to no good. He’s supposed to go to UC Berkeley and study Spanish and English Lit, being a criminal didn’t come up during his meetings with the school guidance counselor. 

When they’re done with dinner, Stiles tosses all the wrappers in the trash. He putters around the kitchen, talking to himself and occasionally glancing over at Derek, like he’s making sure he’s still there. Eventually he must get tired of doing that, so he calls Derek over and puts him to work. 

“Here,” Stiles says and hands Derek a huge bag of fruit flavored hard candies. “Hold these.” 

Before Derek can get a good grip on the slippery bag, Stiles piles a crinkling bag of chocolate candies on top of that and then adds yet another, third, bag of candies. Derek scrambles to keep all of them in his hands while they slip and slide against each other, trying valiantly to end up on the floor.

Stiles ignores his fumblings and turns to take a large plastic bowl down out of a cabinet over the stove. It’s all the way in the back of the top shelf, so Stiles has to reach his arms high above his head to drag it down. His t-shirt rides up and exposes his pale belly to Derek, who almost falls over at the sight of it. He wants to skate his fingers over the fleshy planes of his abdomen, up under his shirt and bury his face in Stiles’ armpits where his shirt is wrinkled from being worn all day. 

Embarrassed, Derek blinks away the thought. He crushes the bags of candy to his chest. Stiles turns around, tugging down his t-shirt with one hand while brandishing the plastic bowl with the other. It’s huge and black and covered in cute little cartoon pumpkins and purple bats. It’s charming, actually, that this probable criminal and practitioner of occult magic has spooky holiday decorations. 

Every day for them is Halloween, but Stiles is still excited about it. It’s cute. 

Stiles sets the bowl down on the counter and mimes opening a plastic bag with both hands at Derek before pointing to the bowl. Derek nods and opens the bags one at a time by swiping open the tops with his claws instead of pulling it open like Stiles showed him just to see the pinched look on his face when he does it. 

Derek smirks and finishes his task, leaving the empty bags on the top of the trash over the Hot Pocket boxes. He mixes the different candy types together with his human hands like they’re salad tossers. Stiles inspects his work before deeming it acceptable. 

“Go sit in the living room,” he instructs and Derek bristles at the order. He does it anyway, but it still rankles 

Stiles disappears back up the stairs. Derek hears him slamming around in his room. His dresser drawers open and close, his closet gets rifled through. Stiles reamerges, practically falling down the stairs, in a bright white shirt with a blood stain on it. It isn’t real blood, it’s too red to be real and even from across the room Derek can tell that it’s corn syrup and food coloring. Stiles smiles and his canines are sharper than they were. 

Derek raises an eyebrow over the candy bowl. “Are you a vampire?” 

“Obviously,” Stiles scoffs. His lips are shiny and redder than they were, like he applied some kind of make-up to them when he was up stairs. He’s paler too, face powery. 

He’s very pretty. 

“You’re just jealous that you don’t have a costume!” Stiles grabs the bowl out of Derek’s hands, bending at the waist to pick up the bowl. The shirt is tight around his biceps, which aren’t particularly prominent, but still well formed and make Derek’s mouth drier than burnt toast. 

Derek frowns, furrows his brow, and shifts his face. He smiles, wolfishly, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t count,” he says. Derek shifts back, but keeps the grin.

Stiles motions for Derek to follow him through the front of the house to the main door. He opens it, juggling his phone, the bowl, and the door knob. Derek doesn’t offer to help, because he’s an asshole, but also because Stiles’ shoulders look great in that shirt and he’s distracted. 

“How’s it going?” he asks just before Stiles flings open the door, crowing triumphantly. He smacks on the porch light with his elbow on his way through the doorway. 

“Great, thank you so much for your help,” Stiles says. He sits heavily down on his front steps, legs bent at the knee, the bowl of candy between his feet. 

Derek closes the front door and sits down next to him, maybe a little closer than he needs to, strictly. He sasses back, “you’re welcome.” 

The street Stiles lives on is hopping with trick-or-treaters already, even though the sun hasn’t even fully set yet. Their first customer is a little kid in a Spiderman costume, then three of the same princess Derek doesn’t recognize. Stiles gives them all a fist full of candy, compliments their outfits and shows off his fangs when one of the princesses asks to see them. 

Derek doesn’t talk, doesn’t engage. He isn’t a people person, and that’s okay. Nobody is paying attention to him when Stiles is there to ham it up anyway. And he likes watching him, likes the way he pulls all eyes his way without even trying. 

He watches Stiles fish around inside the bowl for a chocolate candy without peanuts for a kid with a preference and an allergy, watches him smile triumphantly and hand over the prize he found to a kid in a wizard hat, and wants more than anything to kiss him. It’s annoying! Why does he have a crush on this boy from the future? 

Would it matter if he did? He goes back to his own time soon. He knows he’ll wake up back in his own time, so why not kiss this boy who is kind and cute and also rude, but in a hot way? 

Derek stretches out his legs, makes sure to miss Stiles’ disgusting pumpkin, and bumps his knee into Stiles’. He looks at him out of the corner of his eye and sees Stiles looking back. His eyebrows are in his hairline, vampire teeth biting into his red lip. Derek, immediately regretting his boldness, feels heat pooling in his belly. 

Stiles uses the lull in visitors to lean back, kicking out his legs and falling back on his elbows. He’s very long and Derek can’t look at him for too long or he feels like he will burst into flames. Stiles smirks at him, because he’s an asshole, and touches one of his stupid, big hands to the small of Derek’s back. 

It’s warm and takes up so much room. Derek is almost the same size, but Stiles’ hands are like shovels and Derek wants them all over his body more than he’s ever wanted anything. Almost anything. 

“I get it, man,” Stiles says, grinning like the cat who got the canary. “I’m hotshit.” 

Derek barks, laughing in surprise. He shakes his head. “You’re full of shit, maybe.” 

“Ouch, sick burn.” Stiles rubs his over Derek’s spine through his t-shirt. Derek can’t look at him, his stomach twisted up in knots. 

“Thank you,” he says, dismissive. Derek inches his hand over the rough wood of the front steps and brushes the tips of his fingers over the coarse material of Stiles’ jeans. He fans them out over the expanse of his thigh and when he risks a glance behind him, at Stiles, he’s staring down at Derek’s hand, absolutely thunderstruck. 

They’re interrupted by a pack of children and their guardians, and Stiles bolts upright, inadvertently shaking Derek’s hand from his leg. He charms the kids and startles the parents, then gives them each one of his giant paws full of candy. There’s so much still in his bowl. 

When the kids head back down the path, Stiles only has enough time to turn back to Derek and open his mouth, poised to speak, before the next wave hits. They are busy for a solid hour, dishing out sugary treats and admiring costumes. By the time the street empties out, it is fully night time, the sky inky black, weak stars glinting in the distance. 

Stiles tucks the bowl under his arm and stands with a groan like an old man. He shifts the bowl and holds it between both hands, phone probably in his pocket. 

“Come on, Marty McFly, let’s go back inside. It’s getting late.” Stiles doesn’t start walking towards the door until Derek is standing and walking ahead of him across the creaking front porch. 

Inside, it’s weirdly still after being outside with the hustling and bustling streets, wind chimes, and the dancing tree leaves. It’s quieter in here. There’s nowhere to hide from his actions in here. 

Stiles drops the bowl on the kitchen table and then leans against it, arms crossed over his chest. The tight sleeves of his t-shirt pull against his arms. Derek swallows and looks at him, biting his lips together. 

“We aren’t,” Stiles gestures between them and then in open handed circles, “like this. Now, I mean.” 

“I didn’t think we were,” Derek says, because he hadn’t. It hadn’t really occurred to him that they could be. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, nodding to himself. He pushes off from the edge of the table and tips forward. He crowds into Derek’s space and dips down, hovers with his mouth a hairs breadth away from Derek’s. It makes him feel crazy, like if Stiles doesn’t kiss him he’s going to come out of his skin and fall apart. 

Stiles doesn’t close the gap. He just sits there, his mouth so close. So, so close. Derek pushes up on his toes and surges forward, crashes their mouths together and sinks into it, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ broad shoulders. 

Derek falls back to his flat feet and drags Stiles down with him and swallows the noise of surprise he makes. Swipes his tongue over Stiles’ plump bottom lip and then licks into his mouth. Stiles tastes like the blue raspberry Jolly Rancher he was eating on the porch and his fake teeth hurt when they catch on Derek’s tongue. He just hisses and then keeps kissing. 

Some things are more important. 

Stiles tucks both hands into the small of Derek’s back, tugs him closer, until Derek’s chest is pressed flush against Stiles’ and Derek skin is on fire under Stiles’ hands, hot in the dip of his spine. He bites Derek’s lip and it sends shockwaves through his veins. He wants to live in this moment forever. 

Derek pulls away first, but keeps his front tucked close to Stiles’, tightens his hold around his shoulders. “Wow,” he says and then blushes when Stiles laughs. 

He goes to pull away completely, but Stiles squeezes him tighter. “No, no, come on,” he’s still laughing. “No, not like that. I’m not making fun of you.” 

“Sure,'' Derek sulks, but he doesn’t have much of an opportunity to wallow because Stiles is back, kissing him like an old Hollywood movie, his mouth firm and enveloping. Derek groans, because how could he not. Stiles is hot. 

“Do you want to watch a movie?” Stiles asks, the next time they come up for air. One of his hands is on Derek’s neck now, playing with the hair behind his ear. 

Derek nods, even though what he really wants is to rut up against Stiles’ body until they both come and then maybe scent mark everything he owns. He could settle for a movie though. 

Stiles falls back, but Derek shoots his hand out and curls his fingers in Stiles’, holds his hand. He looks surprised, but doesn’t say anything. Stiles drags him from the nebulous space between the kitchen and the living room and pulls Derek up the stairs behind him. He kicks open the door to his room and it is messier than it was the last time Derek was inside, after Stiles’ mad dash to get ready for trick-or-treaters. He lets go of Derek’s hand long enough to push some stuff off his bed and onto the floor. He grabs his laptop from his desk and crawls inside the sheets, tugging Derek in behind him. 

“Wow,” he says, positioning himself in Stiles’ arms. “What a gentleman.” 

“I’m the little spoon,” Stiles tells him, ignoring his barb. Derek shrugs and rearnages their limbs so Stiles is laying on his chest and not the other way around. 

Stiles takes his vampire teeth out and tosses them on his side table. Then dicks around on something called Netflix on his laptop, which Derek doesn’t understand. He pulls up something spooky and holiday appropriate. Derek doesn’t notice what it is, because they’re kissing again almost as soon as Stiles presses play, leaning up over his own shoulder to kiss Derek’s mouth. 

They wriggle and shift until Stiles is sitting on him, Derek caged in between his arms. He isn’t heavy, because Derek is a werewolf, but he isn’t exactly light either. Derek feels pinned down, but he likes it. He likes that kissing Stiles is sort of like kissing an overeager octopus. He’s everywhere all at once and Derek likes to be overwhelmed. 

He didn’t know that, but he knows it now. 

“God,” Stiles groans and moves against him, both hands cupping Derek’s chest, like he’s a girl almost, but he isn’t complaining because his thumbs are rubbing against his nipples through his shirt and he didn’t even know that would feel good. 

It feels really, really good. 

“God,” he says again, pressing sloppy kisses to Derek’s mouth, down his neck. “You are so sexy, how are you this sexy?” 

“Good breeding,” Derek breathes and sinks his fingers into Stiles’ heavily treated hair. It’s sticky, but he doesn’t mind. 

“Go-- good breeding?” Stiles chokes, his big brown eyes wide and kiss swollen mouth hanging open. “Was that a… a dog joke, Derek Hale?” 

“No,” Derek says, even though it was. He presses his lips into a firm line to keep from laughing, but that only sets Stiles off. He tosses his head back and laughs so hard he falls over and elbows Derek in the ribs. 

The movie is still playing in the background, on Stiles’ laptop sitting precariously at the foot of the bed. Derek watches it over his shoulder while Stiles shakes with laughter. “It wasn’t that funny,” he insists, but it only makes Stiles laugh harder. 

Derek quickly gets bored with this movie he isn’t watching and kisses Stiles to shut him up. Stiles gets back on the wagon fast after that, cradling Derek’s face in his hands and kissing him breathless. Derek kisses back and feels a little thrill of satisfaction when he hears Stiles’ shuddered breathing. 

They don’t have sex, which Derek is both grateful for and disappointed by. He likes Stiles so much, but he just met him and Derek has a sneaking suspicion he might be a romantic. Instead they curl up together, Stiles in Derek’s arms, his wide back pressed against Derek’s chest. Their breathing is synced and Stiles doesn’t laugh at him when he buries his nose in his armpit from behind. He hums into it and they both drift off to sleep, content. 

*

Derek wakes up and he’s standing in the woods outside his house again, running late to take Cora trick-or-treating. 

He curses, and races home, through the trees, jumping over roots and branches on the ground. His chest is heavy, heart slamming against his ribcage. He can’t seem to shake his strange dream. He’s never had an episode like that before, and it’s really throwing him for a loop. He can even smell the boy, the one his brain made up and concocted a love story for. 

Devastation and plain irritation well in his guts, but he can’t dwell in it. He has things to do, places to be. Cora’s to ferry around town.

When he bursts through the door, no one asks him where he’s been. No one says anything to him at all, except Cora, who is waiting by the door in an Indiana Jones costume. 

“Derek, come on! All the good candy is going to be _gone!_!” she cries, grabbing his hand and dragging him back out the front door. Derek apologizes and helps her into the passenger’s seat of his car, moving the books he’s borrowing from Miss deSilva, his substitute English teacher, so Cora has a place to sit. 

In town, they drive past a house that looks so much like Stiles’ house, the house from his weird forest dream, only there is a string of bright orange lights along the railings on the porch. When the front door opens to kids knocking against its frame frantically, a pretty woman with dark hair answers it. Something about the impossibly large bowl of candy in her hands sets Derek’s senses tingling. His skin itches over it. 

Derek takes Cora to the other side of town. They trick-or-treat there instead. 

*

BONUS: 

From: Stiles Stilinski  
derek i cant believe u told a joke once 

From: Stiles Stilinski  
were you the class clown derek u can be honest with me 

From: Stiles Stilinski  
u make a good space heater let me know whn you come back from ur eat pray love tour ok 

From: Stiles Stilinski  
i miss you maybe

To: Stiles Stilinski  
No

To: Stiles Stilinski  
Okay

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like this!! 
> 
> Thank you for a special gc and my roommates for watching just so much teen wolf with me. I’m so sorry. 
> 
> Additional thanks to one of my roommates in particular who was like, time travel question mark and I was like whoa you fucking life saver. Tysm


End file.
